


Morning in the Sun

by Songstress21 (Cantatrice18)



Category: Street Scene - Kurt Weill
Genre: F/M, Missing Scenes, Rumors, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-07
Updated: 2013-07-07
Packaged: 2017-12-18 00:37:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/873711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cantatrice18/pseuds/Songstress21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Why Mr. Maurrant didn't go to New Haven, and what happened behind the closed windowshade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“That’s it, Frank. We’re all loaded in.”

Gordon McCalister, stage manager for the 53rd Street theater, grinned up at the much taller Frank Maurrant. “Looks like this one’s nice and easy. Ain’t never seen a show with so few sets – hope the audience feels like they’re gettin’ their money’s worth.”

Frank nodded, his mind elsewhere. That morning’s argument with his wife and daughter had left him distracted, unsettled, and in need of a stiff drink. He hated fighting them, particularly in public. The neighbors already had enough to talk about, what with his daughter staying out till all hours and his wife…

The thought of Anna caused a surge of anger that jolted him out of his daze. Gordon was still standing in front of him, his brow furrowed in concern. “Hey Frank, you feelin’ alright? Only it seems like these past couple of weeks you’ve come close to brainin’ the leading lady in the head three times with that drop, the one that comes in in the last scene.” He smirked knowingly. “I understand those were accidental, though I gotta say, I’ve been tempted to drop something on her once or twice too. But there are other things, Frank, just moments where you’re not all there. If you’ve got something on your mind, I suggest you unburden yourself over the next two days while the rest of us are in New Haven. You’re staying here.”

He held up a hand to halt Frank’s protests. “It isn’t up for debate, Frank. You’ve been working overtime as it is, and this show could run itself without any of us. Take the days, fix yourself up, and come in Monday ready to work. I need your best when we begin the new production next month.”

Every ounce of pride Frank had screamed at him to protest, to insist upon working, but he couldn’t muster the energy. Until that moment he hadn’t realized how tired he’d become. The idea of a few days at home was appealing. That is, if he could just keep his family in line. He sighed and glared down at the stage manager. “Fine, if that’s the way you want it. Can’t say I have a damn thing on my mind but this heat.”

A half hour later he was walking up the steps from the subway station and into the blinding daylight. The heat hit him like a wave, making him stumble back into the shade. He leaned against the wall of a building, closing his eyes for a moment. When he opened them he saw the flickering light of a neon sign that flashed red a half-block away. “Open”, it read, and beside it the blue outline of a martini glass blinked merrily. It was only eleven, but already he felt the need to numb himself, to rid himself of the nagging doubts about his wife, his daughter. Gossip drove him mad, and alcohol deadened his senses. He always felt that if he just drank enough it wouldn’t matter what people said about him or about his family. Everything would be like it used to be if he could just find peace somehow. Turning, he headed in the direction of the sign. One drink should be enough, he reasoned, to get the job done. After that he’d go home and talk to Anna. He had been too harsh that morning, he knew, and maybe Rose was right. Perhaps, if he placated her, she’d listen to reason and return to the way things used to be. He felt a terrible longing for the way things were when the children were little, way back when Rose was Willie’s age and wearing her hair in pigtails, instead of the curls and pins she messed with these days. Back then Anna had been content to tend to her duties as a wife and mother. Back then he’d thought wistfully of home during the long, hot days under the lights of the theater. Now it was a cool drink that caught his fancy, not his stifling apartment with his reckless children and withdrawn wife, and with the talk that encircled them all like a cloud. He reached the door of the bar and entered, walking purposefully up to the counter and laying a pair of coins on the counter. “Gimme a drink. Strongest you’ve got.”

It was one o’clock when he left the bar, his head a bit fuzzier than when he’d entered it. One drink had turned into three, and he would have stayed longer but the bartender kept giving him sidelong looks that he hadn’t cared for. It was no one’s business but his own if he was drinking in the morning. Still, he hated being judged. If things had been like they used to be he wouldn’t have set foot in a bar at all. A part of him regretted having left his work in the first place. He should have insisted on staying. No help for it now, though – he’d have to face Anna sometime. As he turned onto his own street he resolved to keep his cool. The last thing he needed was a shouting match in this heat. He heard a voice call his name and looked up to see Mrs. Jones leaning out her window. “Why, hello, Mr. Maurrant. I thought you was goin’ to New Haven.” 

She had a gleeful smile on her face that he didn’t care for, and he felt his hackles rise. “I changed my…” His eye caught upon his own window and the words slipped away from him. The shade was closed, despite the heat, and the sight of it made all of his fear and anger come rushing back in a wave. He felt his body stride towards the stairs and dimly heard the Kaplan boy shouting at him, but he couldn’t stop. His mind was fixated on that window and the shadowy goings-on behind it. He was going to stop this once and for all; it was time for the truth to come out.


	2. Chapter 2

“Come up,” she’d called to him, and he’d done as she asked. Now they sat together at the tiny kitchen table, his fingers intertwined with hers. She felt tears gathering in her eyes. It was so comfortable, just to be around him and look into his smiling eyes. Mr. Sankey listened to her, comforted her, held her close when she needed someone there. Giving that security up was nearly impossible, and she felt her resolve weakening, but it had to be done. If she was ever going to rebuild her life with Frank, she had to stem the tide of gossip and rumors. She knew what the neighbors thought of her, could guess what they whispered behind her back. It was hard enough not to give in to Sankey’s advances without the condemnation of the world weighing on her as though she’d already shattered her marriage vows. Sankey had spoken longingly of running away with her, of leaving his loveless marriage behind and starting a new life, but she knew that she could never leave Willie behind with his father. She was determined that her little boy would grow up different, would grow up to be kind and gentle. To do that, she needed to stay with him and guide him along his way. Deep down, she knew she had to stay for Frank as well. He was flawed, sometimes terribly so, but twenty-three years together was not something to toss aside. By now she knew him better than anyone else, and even if love was missing there was the attachment that time brought. Her body yearned for a tender caress, a gentle hand run through her hair, but her mind would not forget her marriage. Sankey had become part of her life by accident, when his kind gesture of carrying her grocery bags up the apartment stairs had turned into an hour-long conversation. Soon she was baring her soul to him, confiding her thoughts and fears. His quiet voice calmed her, made her feel more prepared to face the world, but each rejection from Frank sent her back to Sankey’s calm half-smile. This was not the first time she’d cried in front of him, but it was the first time she’d cried because of him. Only now, in their last moments together, did she realize how much she truly cared for him. The last of her control broke and she laid her head down on the table, choked sobs tearing at her throat. Then she was on her feet, cradled in his arms with her head on his shoulder and her tears darkening the white of his shirt. His hands ran up and down her back, pulling her closer and closer to him, and she closed her eyes, imagining herself in a world without heartbreak and pain. The crash of a door slamming made her jerk away from Sankey’s embrace, and she raised her head to find Frank standing in the doorway, a black magnum revolver in his hand.


	3. Chapter 3

He was holding her, touching her back and God knows where else, and she was letting him. The numbness from the alcohol seemed to envelop him to where he hardly noticed his arm raise and his finger rest on the trigger. He heard her scream, heard her cry out his name, but as the first shot rang out all he could see was the terrified look in her eyes and the fact that her cheeks were stained with tears. It had been a long time since he’d seen her cry, and his mind drifted back to her tears of joy at their wedding as she held onto his hand. He remembered her silent anguish at her mother’s funeral, remembered her trembling at Rose’s graduation. She hardly ever cried, or so he thought. Now she held on to another man for support, let him dry her tears. But why was she crying at all? 

The unspoken question hung in the air as he watched the light fade from her eyes. She fell to the ground and he felt every emotion inside of him come alive again. Accusation melded into hurt, which mingled with sorrow and self loathing, and he took a step backwards away from her prone body. Blood was staining the front of her faded dress, and he felt a surge of panic as her eyelids fluttered closed. This wasn’t right; this couldn’t be happening. His Anna wasn’t here, lying on floor next to her lover’s corpse with her life fading away. His Anna was kind and gentle, his Anna cared for her children and husband more than anything, his Anna was not a married man’s mistress or an adulteress. He heard screams outside the window and realized how much noise the shots had made. Glancing out a window, he saw a small crowd had begun to gather on the sidewalk below. With one last look at the figures on the floor, he escaped into the hallway and closed the door behind him. As he ran towards the exit the image of her eyes hung in his memory, haunting his thoughts as he made his way out into the unforgiving light of day, reproaching him. He heard her voice ring in his ears, growing louder and louder as she called out his name, and as he made his escape into the dark cellars beneath the building he knew with absolute certainty that it was his fault she'd strayed away from him. He'd never been the husband she needed, he'd never listened to her throughout the many years of their marriage, and he'd acted without thinking when he drew his weapon and blindly fired. He'd loved her, and he'd never once told her since the day they were married. There was a wall around his emotions that he refused to breach, and she'd remained outside of it for over twenty years. It was no wonder she'd sought love elsewhere. He was stunned to find tears coming to his own eyes as he thought of her gentle hand on his shoulder, the warmth of her body beside him as he lay awake nights. He collapsed behind a pile of unused crates and put his head in his hands. He'd loved her, and he'd killed her. He oughtn't have done it. Not ever.


End file.
